


I Wish I Never Felt Anything At All

by killerkitty15



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Death, Freeform, Love, M/M, Mental Instability, POV First Person, Reflection, Reminiscing, Self-Harm, Self-Reflection, Slash, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7433482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerkitty15/pseuds/killerkitty15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The books, sad songs, and cinemas<br/>they all lied, lied, lied<br/>why didn't anyone tell me<br/>love is like being fucked with a knife?"<br/>--Nicole Dollanganger, "Flowers of Flesh and Blood"</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wish I Never Felt Anything At All

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't read if any of these things will negatively effect you. This is a work of fiction and it is not my intention to disrespect anyone or romanticize mental illness. I have depression myself so I know how terrible it is. 
> 
> Again, this is a work of fiction and is not ment to cast suicide, depression, mental illness or anything of the sort in a positive light. They are terrible things and I encourage everyone to find guidiance through therapy or through other healthy options. Please get help if you feel like hurting yourself or others.

I kept the pictures of you beneath my bed. They were all candid, you never let me when you knew. You didn't like yourself, even though I told you I was capturing God on camera. I still have them, in a shoebox wrapped in red duct tape because it has always been my favorite color, it was your eyes, but now it's in my closet, even more hidden.

It's all I have left of you...

You were eighteen and I was only two years younger. We met when the sky was black, crying cold rain, and you gave me your leather jacket with the warm inside from the faux fur and your body heat. "You'll get sick," you explained with that sheepish grin that made my heart ache, "a pretty guy like you should get looked after."

Your jacket smelled like cologne and black cigarettes. "Ludwig's your brother, right? And you're friends with Francis?"

"Ja, and your Francis' cousin."

From that day forward, I should have known that you would be the end of me. You listened to me, laughed with me and protected me.

"I'll die for you, Birdie, just say the word," you said as I bandaged your wounds, cupping my cheek in your rough hand, "I'll kill for you, die for you -just say it."

You were the best thing that ever happened to me, taking my black and white world and setting it ablaze with color. All the emptiness that had been steadily growing inside of me was filled and held at bay everytime you held me close or looked at me. You took my virginity, touching all my curves and the soft, squishy parts I wanted gone. Your body was hard but you treated me like a porcelian doll...until you were inside, long, hard, thick, and I begged you, begged you to move, to help me forget everything but you inside me and your name. When I came, I heard angels singing and saw Heaven. My body, your body, both were canvases we decorated in red, purple, blue, white, and I couldn't stop touching you. I didn't think you were real. 

At seven in the morning, it was a Saturday, I woke up to you stomping around, screaming, sobbing, around your room. "I ca't find them -I don't -there's no more!"

Years would go by before I was told that you relied too much on those blue pills in the orange bottles; had stopped trying to combat it yourself, expecting the medication to take it all. You couldn't help yourself anymore. The medicine could only do so much.

There was another side of you I'm ashamed I didn't see sooner. The longer we were together, the more I saw. Moments when you would turn too quiet, thinking too hard about sad things that held no right to be the subject of your thoughts, or when you'd get sad or angry for no apparent reason. I started to notice the signs. When you'd get into more fights, smoke more cigarettes, drink more, hold me tighter, fuck me harder, or not touch me at all. But I loved you more than anything because all that was in your head, all your angels and demons, made you my Gilbert.

Our relationship lasted a year, our friendship made it almost two, and I let myself believe that I was all that was needed to help you. I was supportive, I listened, comforted you. We talked about eloping, traveling the world, in that vague way that only dumbasses in love, with no responsibilies, were famous for. Sometimes you were good, other times you weren't, but I thought that those pills and I were all you needed, that I could magically wipe away all your pain and the hate in your brain would receed because I loved you. I was your disciple and you were my messiah; I worshipped the ground you walked on. I never, ever thought that your love was as passionate and obsessive as mine, but I hoped, begged, _prayed,_ that you at least loved me. Even if it was only a little bit. 

Now...Now, I know better.

The mind is a terrible, terrible, thing, isn't it? I don't have many doubts about your feelings anymore, but I know now that my love, our love, couldn't save you. Love just didn't have power like that. Your mind was your own worst enemy and it pushed you. It led you to cut yourself in an attempt to keep yourself alive, to feel reprieve so you could survive another day. And almost two years after knowing each other, a full year of being together romantically, it was your twisted mind that led you to that building and told you it was a good idea to jump, to just _fucking do it_. 

You left a note and, when I read it, it made me love you more, even as I called you every name in the book for leaving me alone. You left the lyrics you wrote me, the sketches of me, your guitar pick, your favorite, the small bird plushie I won you at the fair. Those are in the shoebox, too. Three years later and I still have your jacket you wore when we first met. When I miss you, I put my face in the fabric, try to inhale whatever's left of you, but the smell of your laundry detergent, cologne and black cigarettes went away a long time ago. So, I just sob into it instead. 

I was locked up three times because of you, locked up in a rubber room. Your brother checks in every other month, he's at Harvard now, and your Opa died last summer. He was the only one in your family that kept me close, maybe because I reminded him of you. Now, I don't leave home, I have a dog named Kuma, and the home that I should consider my own is Alfred's... He's the one that makes sure I eat, bathe, take the pills that mimic yours, who makes sure I don't take my own life. Sometimes I think he's all too happy, acting as my "hero"

From the moment I met you, you twisted up my insides. Your love was like rain and my heart bloomed beneath it, only for you to step on it and burn it. But I held the pain close. I had always run from it before, but this was different. It reminded me that you were real, that you had once been solid, that I had said, "Yes, he's my boyfriend. That's my pooh-bear."

"Matt? Mattie, how are you feeling, buddy?"

I sat looking out the window, wearing one of your hoodies but Alfred didn't notice it was yours. It was snowing. "Yes, Alfred, I'm fine." I wanted to punch him for talking to me like I was an inept toddler, but it would take too much energy to do that.

"Are you sure?"

I blinked. It must have been obvious, how much pain you caused me today, if Alfred of all people asked again. "Oui, Al. I'm sure."

"Ok," he said with his all American boy smile, running his fingers through my hair and I tried not to flinch away, ever since you left I didn't like others touching me, "then I'm going to go down stairs and make us breakfast for dinner!" 

My stomach protested at the thought of pancakes and syrup and bacon and I wanted to curl up and scream until my throat started bleeding. "That would be great, Al," I smiled because I knew that's what he wanted to hear, to see. _Progress_. That's all that anyone ever wanted to hear and see. _Progress_. Fucking _progress_. "I haven't had that in a while." 

His smile got bigger and he rushed out of my room, all for the sake of _progress_. I turned back to the window, blew on it, and drew a heart, which soon began to bleed, in the fog. Deep down, I know that the numbness I feel is not entirely your doing. I felt this all along, a monster on my back that only you could keep at bay. What do you think of me, Gilbert? Using you as such an easy excuse? Do you hate me, now?

All I wanted to do was cry and scream and pull out my hair. My eyes stayed dry. With hands too weak from the lack of a good, regular diet, I pried the window open, letting the crisp air cut across my face. Where did you go, Gilbert? We both wanted death desperately, you and I, yet we had no answer as to what came after or what would happen. When you thought about it...it was terrifying. I've tried this three times now and the fear is still there. Were you afraid? My toes grew cold and I gasped, my body shaking, my hands white knuckling the window sill as I stood on it, looking down at the cement and snow and ice.

_Gilbert..._

The wind burned my eyes.

_Gilbert..._

I closed them, enjoying the crispness on my skin more. It cooled down the fire running through my blood.

_I miss you..._

My bottom lip quivered. 

_I miss you._

The grip I had on the window sill loosened.

_I miss you!_

I lifted my foot.

_I MISS YOU!_

Arms wrapped around my waist. Strong, familiar arms and I smiled, the tears finally managing to slide down my cheeks, soaking the skin of my face, my neck and the collar of your sweatshirt. 

_Gilbert...I miss you...please...don't leave me alone. Not again._


End file.
